


More than a Mark [Revised and Expanded]

by Euleogy



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Abuse, BDSM, Circle of Magi-Freeform, Incest, Light BDSM, M/M, Mage Headcannons, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, This can get intense, Tranquility, You've been warned, revised, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-26 20:50:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7589641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euleogy/pseuds/Euleogy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damien Trevelyan is a mage from Ostwick. Having been put into the circle at a young age, he's suffered just as any mage under the abuses of the templars. It's quite by accident that he finds himself an important player in a terrifying game. Targeted by a Magister and a Qunari though with differences in intent, he finds himself trying to sort out his life, his past, and the scars that he insists don't exist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue Pt. 1

**Author's Note:**

> I will warn you now, before you read this, that I associate heavily with abuse toward mages, and mages in general. While this fanfiction is just that, Fiction, the situations in this story do happen. Please read the tags and be aware of your triggers before diving into this story. This is the revised and expanded version of my fanfic; More than a Mark, under the same pen-name, previously Shivasyla. Any chapter with smut in it will have a warning ahead of time, both at the beginning of the chapter in the notes, as well as before things get hot and head in an in-chapter Author's Note. Said Author's note will be at the beginning and end in bold, so that if you want to skip the smut, you can just look for bold lettering.

          The day started with the blaring of a horn, same as it always did, precisely as the sun crested over the horizon. Damien was already awake, staring at the ceiling. It had been 6 months since his Harrowing, and still the nightmares wouldn't let him sleep. Not that it mattered, he'd never gotten much sleep, not for as long as he could really remember, anyway. He was sure that in his early years he’d gotten plenty of sleep. Perhaps enough to make up for the lack of sleep in his later years.

 

          Damien had only been 5 when his parents had promptly sent him to the circle. His entire family were good, faithful Andrastians. An uncle, two aunts, and two cousins in the templars, two sisters and a brother in the Chantry. It was just their luck to get a mage. So, as soon as he exhibited magic, they sent him away. Hide the disgrace while showing how they obeyed the laws of both Maker and Man. Damien often wondered if there had ever even been one moment of hesitation, even one. He also wondered if they regretted it, though he doubted it.

 

          The horn blared again, a shrill trumpet echoing along the stone of the tower. The door to the men's hall was knocked open as Damien rolled off his cot to stand at the foot of his bed, his roommate doing the same. The dorms of the Circle at Ostwick were by no means lavish, but they were more than some had outside the circle, Damien knew that much.

 

          There were 6 halls total, each of varying sizes based on some statistic at the time the Circle was built. Every few years they’d do some checks and decide of the housing was to be changed or not based on the Circle’s population. Damien had only moved rooms once, and that was when he was an apprentice. Moving rooms was less common once you were Harrowed, he’d heard.

 

          There were two Halls for the Templars, one for the men and one for the women. The number of Templars in the circle rarely changed. If a Templar died or was reassigned, a replacement was received within a month. Each Templar hall could house 20 Templars, a total of 40 Templars, max. Only 36 ever lived at the circle at any given time, though. Two rooms, one in each of the Templar halls, was reserved for guests. Damien couldn’t remember them ever having been used, though.

 

          The 4 remaining halls were for the Mages. Two for Harrowed, and Two for Apprentices. The Apprentice halls were small, but one was larger than the other. At the moment, the girls had the larger hall, with its 8 rooms, housing 14 girls. There were only 7 male apprentices at the moment, now that Damien had become Harrowed. That meant the boys were in the smaller hall, with 5 rooms.

 

          The two Harrowed halls were of the same size, both with 10 rooms. For a total of 40 Harrowed mages. At the moment though, there were 26 harrowed mages. 15 of them were male, including Damien, and 11 of them were women.

 

          Damien referred to the small alcoves within each hall as rooms loosely. The hall was long and without its walls would be like any other large hall. There were doors at either end of the Hall, both on the left side, closer to the center. The exterior wall of the circle would be on your right. Jutting from the exterior wall were perpendicular walls branching inward, stopping after about 10 feet to divide that wall into segments. At the end of those walls were half walls, as tall as a man, but no taller. These walls did not connect to their opposing wall to make a closed ‘room’. They went only as far as the length of a cot, a chest, and another foot or so. Then there was a 4-foot gap before the next perpendicular wall marked the next ‘room’.

 

          Each room had two cots, each with a chest at their base. Since the mages were allowed few personal possessions, these chests mostly just held spare robes. The younger mages might have an old toy or two, and even then the toy couldn’t be flammable, or be something that could be used as a weapon. Fist-sized cotton balls, treated with a magical flame-resistant barrier were the most popular, though there were yarn dolls as well, also treated with this barrier. Anything wooden was almost expressly forbidden, as was anything hard such as clay, porcelain, or stone.

 

          Damien heard the footsteps of the Templar as he walked down the row of ‘rooms’, looking in each for anyone not out of bed, or worse, missing entirely. Damien could only remember a missing mage twice. Once, shortly after he’d arrived at the circle, and once, shortly before his harrowing. The first time was back when relations between mages and Templars were far less… strained. A decent number of the Templars had actually seemed concerned. Of course, Damien was only 5 at the time, and he was probably adding in the emotions of a scared child. That missing mage had been found. He’d been in the library, under a table reading so that the Templar patrols throughout the night hadn’t seen him. According to him, he’d wanted to keep reading after curfew, and hadn’t even noticed that it was morning.

 

          The second time, Damien could still remember vividly. The missing mage had been found, within a couple hours. The girl, she’d only been 17, had been found outside the tower, on the ground, dead from the fall. She’d somehow managed to unlock the roof-top door, though exactly how no one was sure. It was obvious that she’d jumped though. She was too far from the tower walls to have been pushed, or tripped on accident. Plus, no one had heard a scream, and a slip or push would have been fearfully loud.

 

          The Templar this morning was Ser Kendal.  Kendal was one of the nicer ones. He did his job, nothing more, nothing less. He wasn't a power-hungry sadist either. He wasn't kind, but he wasn't cruel. Many of the mages were so wanting for affection that he could have slept with half the population of the tower, had he wanted. He didn't though, and for that he had earned Damien's respect.

 

          Once Kendal had taken attendance, he left the room, allowing the men to dress themselves before leaving for their day to day tasks. A good portion of the Templars would stay to watch the women dress, and a handful would stay to watch the men, but Kendal left, like he was supposed to. Damien, in his younger years, had also felt the attraction to the solemn Templar, but this faded with age, and now he even found his respect fading. Kendal did his job, nothing more. He was never up for promotion. He never advocated against his fellow knights. He did not defend the mages, just didn't do the abuses himself. To some, that was enough. It had been enough for Damien, when he was in his teen years. Now, it was almost as bad as having a hand in the abuse himself.

 

          Breakfast was lukewarm porridge, leftover from the pot the Templars made for themselves. Sometimes there were bits of meat, fish, sometimes even fruit thrown in, but today it was just the bland, flavorless porridge. Grains and water, cooked to mush. Sometimes, if there was a particularly good Harrowing, the Templars would give salt, sugar, or milk to the mages to flavor the porridge, but today was nothing extraordinary, and the porridge was barely warm, and bland. It went down like the paste used to repair the books as they fell apart, sitting in the stomach like a particularly soft rock of tar. It kept your stomach from growling, but did little else.

 

          After breakfast, the mages had their chores. Chamber pots to be emptied, clothes to wash, dishes to do. Each day the mages were assigned a different section of the circle for the cleaning that wasn’t daily such as scrubbing the floors, dusting the shelves, organizing supplies. That way the rooms all got cleaned on the same time frame. Lunch and Dinner for both mage and Templar alike was cooked by the mages, though usually a small group of Apprentices were assigned that task. Stews, roast meats, breads, it all had to be made, starting first with breaking apart a whole animal, or rather, several whole animals. All the while, the Templars watched, waiting for any excuse to alleviate their boredom with…. Something. Most of the time it was a pass at a mage, but once every few days it would be a beating. The Templars would find excuses.

 

          Meat not cooked enough, floor too wet, floor too dry, shelf still dusty. Anything could be used as fuel, especially if a pass was resisted, or even not given due enthusiasm. The Apprentices were in the library most of the day, with the senior enchanters who taught them. They were far from exempt though. The Templars watching them would often ‘test’ the Apprentices, sometimes on things they hadn’t learned yet.

 

          "Block this, Mage."

 

          "Heal this, Mage."

 

          "Burn this, Mage."

 

          Any failure would only cause a rebuke. A painful rebuke. Even if you managed to 'pass' a Templar's test the most you could expect is an aggravated yet affirmative grunt. Failing to block a blow was usually considered punishment enough, same as failing to heal whatever wound they chose to inflict upon you. Fail to create fire, or lightning, and you think they'd be happy that your magic was weak, but this was often met with pain, fists both open and closed. If an apprentice was particularly disliked, sometimes they'd even get you on the floor, only to give you a final kick.

 

          The mages of the Ostwick Circle had long learned to remain silent. Make a noise, they fed off your pain. Remain silent, and they'd leave you alone. You weren't any fun if you just took it like a good little subordinate.

 

          Damien had long learned the behaviors. Look toward the ground. Nod vigorously but silently, unless they were yelling. If you were being yelled at, simply answer 'Yes, Ser', or,'No, Ser'. Even then sometimes, you were a target.

 

          Too smart, too fit, too fair, too ugly, too stupid. Anyone but the average was a target. You wanted to blend in. You wanted to be 'just another mage'. If a Templar knew your name, there was trouble to be had.

 

          The day ended with dinner, then bed. It used to be you heard crying, soft sobs and gentle weeping. As you got older, as your group of mages got smaller, as you all became harder, the noises grew less and less obvious until finally, there was silence. Children, aged up to 10 was one group. Ages 11-15 another. Ages 16-19 was the third. Granted, the official ages were 16 and up with the last group, but everyone knew if you weren't out of the apprentice barracks and into the mages barracks by then, you were going to be made tranquil.

 

           Damien had almost been tranquil. To this day he attributes his last name to his sense of self, because he fears without it, he would be a no one, just another tranquil. Menial tasks, taking inventory, spell checker, things that required little skill and even less thought. Originally the Tranquil had also done the chores and cooking around the small circle of Ostwick, but the population of the Free Marches was spread into City-States, and Ostwick was not a large one. Each group of Apprentices numbered less than 15. If you kept track of the ages of the Harrowed mages you'd see that number shrink to less than 15 with those who were under 35 alone. For every 5 mages it at least felt like there were 2 Templars.

 

          Damien had been 19 when he'd finally be slotted for his Harrowing. They had no reason to wait so long for him, really. He'd eavesdropped in on some of the senior enchanters as an apprentice. Had heard them talk about him. Saying how he wasn't an amazing mage, but he was certainly more than proficient enough to take his Harrowing. Still however, the First Enchanter, or the Knight Commander rejected him every month.

 

          When he was finally slated into place, he almost cried. He'd been sure they'd planned to make him tranquil. Damien had undergone the same abuses as most of the other Apprentices, and it was well known that being made Tranquil made you nothing more than an object to the Templars, to do with as they pleased. In some ways the abuse got better, but in others it got much worse. Not like you'd care though, becoming Tranquil was like dying, but your voice and face could still haunt your friends. That damned sunburst of a brand seared into your forehead as a constant reminder than you were no longer whole.

 

          With night brought fitful sleep. Sleep without sleeping. The Fade, the world of dreams, demons. Damien used to enjoy sleeping. No Templars. Just dreams, just the Fade. Sure, he could feel the hair on the back of his neck prick as demons whispered their promises of false futures, but they’d never been a true temptation to Damien. Now though, he rarely dreamed, and when he did, they were only nightmares. Demons took the shape of the Templars. Those Templars who knew his name, and knew just what to do to break his silence.

 

          He wasn’t sure what it had been about his Harrowing that had spurred the nightmares. They weren’t replays of his hours spent wandering the fade, fighting his way out both physically and mentally. The Harrowing had been riddles layered upon attacks, but it had been only draining, tedious, but not overly difficult. The abuses from the Templars had prepared him well, as ironic as it may be. No, perhaps the Harrowing made his presence more apparent to the demons of the fade. Made him a bigger target. Allowed them to see those things that did tempt him.

 

          Two hours, staring at the ceiling. One hour sleeping without dreaming. Another half hour staring at the ceiling. An hour of half-sleep. 2 hours of nightmares. An hour of half-sleep, and hour of sleepless sleep, and then 30 minutes of staring at the ceiling before the daily monotony of the tower continued once again.


	2. Prologue Pt. 2

          The reports came in slowly. The Blood Mage outbreak in Kirkwall, followed by the explosion, and then the order to annul the circle by the insane Knight Commander Meredith. Of course, Kirkwall was only the first. Afterwards there was the Annulment of several other circles, to ‘prevent the inevitable’. There were apostates killing those who supported the Chantry. Finally, news that there would be a vote. A vote by the mages, to decide whether or not they would continue to follow the Chantry. Senior Enchanters left their circles in droves to go to this meeting, to vote. In Ostwick at least, that left all the apprentices, and all the low ranking enchanters alone.

          With each new development the Templars had grown more restless. More Apprentices made Tranquil. More mages locked up, starved. Tower-wide punishments. Skipped meals. Confined to quarters. Anything could tip the delicate balance of the circle. Until finally, news of the vote returned to the circle. The Enchanters had voted to break away from the Chantry. The Chantry had called the Templars back to Orlais. All Mages were free. Apostates, but free.

          At least, that was how it was supposed to be. For some circles, it really was that easy. The Templars left, the mages took their things, left or stayed, it didn’t matter. Ostwick was different though. Too many Templars, perhaps. The good ones left, of course. Followed their orders. The ones who remained though? Those were the worst of the group.

           At first, life was as you’d expect. The Templars did a lot of damage. Then, they ran out of Lyrium. That was it, for some. Those that left to find more Lyrium left behind those who didn’t care about Lyrium for want of the power over mages. There were three of them, compared to the remaining 14 apprentices and enchanters, including Damien.

          The Three Templars must’ve sat down, must have reached some sort of agreement, because in unison, they decided to kill off the mages. So there was slaughter. Only 4 months after the voting, Ostwick Circle became nothing more than a pool of blood.

          Damien had hidden. Cowardly. Hide away, don’t save your brothers and sisters. He could hear their screams, their begging, pleading. He didn’t know if anyone else had made it out alive. He hoped at least two or three others had hidden themselves as well, or perhaps the Templars had kept one or two alive for themselves. Damien remained ignorant of this, for he remained hidden, too scared to move lest he be discovered and slain. His hiding place, a chest in the Templars’ own barracks.

          The screams finally stopped. It felt like hours. Then there was silence, blissful silence. An hour passed, then two, then the soft weeping began as he could hear footsteps shuffle in the rubble that the Templars had created when they destroyed the tower. Looking for friends, siblings, anyone. Damien kept to his chest, and even those who survived did not find him. It had answered his question though; some of the mages from Ostwick still lived.

          He stayed in that chest all night, curled in a ball as the cold air permeated the wood. His robe pulled tight around him for warmth, he summoned fire to his hands, allowing the flames to lick across his skin, close enough for heat, but not enough to harm him. He’d always been good at fire. It was fierce. It did damage. It couldn’t be caged. It was feared, and respected, and if it wasn’t kept in check, it could wreak more havoc than ten mages.

          Fire was everything he wished he could be. Powerful. A force to fear. True, as a mage he was feared, but it was an unjust fear. Fear of fire was just. Fire was dangerous. Fire was also clean. Burning everything and leaving only hot blackness in its wake.

          When Damien had been 19, afraid he was going to be made tranquil, he tried to envision the positives to the process. A brand. Burning pain. Just like fire. And then nothing. Just scarred black emptiness. Just like a fire. It had made the prospect seem particularly less daunting. Like he might actually be able to face the brand with a stern face and dry cheeks. Now though, in the cold of the Tower, in the chest of a Templar, he cried.

 

**\--------------------------------**

 

          The next morning, Damien woke up. Sunlight came through the windows of the Templar barracks and in turn filtered through the cracks in the wooden chest. It occurred to Damien that he’d actually slept, and in a chest of all places. Carefully, he lifted an arm, pushing up on the lid of the chest, a ‘creak’ filling the otherwise empty air.

          Damien climbed out of the trunk, his heart hammering, almost expecting to have a Templar bare down on him. He straightened his robes, looking around the room. Frantically, he began searching everything he could, chests, sacks, trunks, armoires, bookshelves. Anything that had been left behind. He managed to find some gold, and a weak staff. It was better than nothing. His searching finally led him to what was left of the pantry; some stale bread, and some dried fruit. Everything else was rotten, needed to be cooked, or was otherwise indigestible. Hungrily he ate the bread before shoving the fruit into his pockets, and for the first time in his life, he left the tower that had been his home for over a decade.

 

**\---------------------------------**

 

          Eight months. Eight months avoiding Templars and mages alike. Eight months stealing what food he could. Eight months camping in the woods, bathing in rivers, and eating leaves that he hoped were edible. He had had some training as far as survival goes. Enough to draw pictures of poisonous leaves, and medicinal ones. As far as ‘What to Eat’, they’d never thought that necessary. Likewise, for berries, roots, and animals, he could only hope he could heal himself of any toxic substances.

          He didn’t eat anything hearty. After 2 weeks of a vegetarian diet (he’d managed to steal a wedge of cheese, and sneak into a barn to milk a cow once), he finally gave in and ate those critters that were less than appetizing. They were crunchy, fairly flavorless, and went down like a particularly nasty string of mucus, but he knew it was supposed to be good for you.

          His cheeks had grown gaunt, the bones of his wrists protruding. He’d been able to start fires, but even the energy for that life giving element was growing scarce. He was a circle mage. He’d been sheltered from the elements, if not from the cruelty of humanity. Even as he cursed his own lack of skill, he could not find it in his heart to feel any sort of anger toward the mages who had brought about the disbanding of the circles. Had he been in attendance, he was sure his vote would have joined them.

          Then the Conclave was announced. He may have been avoiding humanity, but you’d have to be under a rock to miss the Conclave. The roads were full of merchants and sisters, mages and templars, mercenaries and soldiers, nobility and peasants, all heading toward Haven, toward the Conclave. The Divine Justinia had called for peace talks. To try and end the war. Damien found himself following the throngs, heading toward Haven, to hopefully, an end to the madness.


	3. Shoulda Spun a Story

          A flash, bright green. Spiders. Another flash, pain shooting up his arm, up to his shoulder blade. Then consciousness. Damien was kneeling in the center of a dungeon, his robes had been replaced- No… No he’d changed into these clothes. He’d wanted to look like a faceless Mercenary. Why had he wanted to hide his apostasy? The Conclave. Right. It was all coming back, slowly. Sneaking into the Conclave, hearing shouts. He’d debated running, sure an authority figure would find the source, and sure he would not want to be found near it. Against his better judgement, he followed the yells, and then… nothing. That was all he- No. No there were spiders. Huge spiders. And green. Everything was a sickening green.

 

          Another flash followed by pain drew his attention downward. His palm. His palm was… glowing? No. Not exactly. There was a mark, a wound of some kind, slashing across his palm in a jagged line. There was no blood. There was…  tendrils of that sickening green curling away from the tear in his skin. It was glowing. Then it faded slightly, pulsing. It ached, but the shooting pains up his arm were even worse.

 

          _‘What is this?’_

 

          He didn’t have long to think about his predicament before the door in front of him burst open, a tall woman stomping through. She was… quite angry. Demanding answers about the Conclave. It had… blown up? Like the Chantry in Kirkwall? And of course, he was a mage. Of course another explosion in a holy place would be a mage. Why did they suspect him though? Did he actually do something? Is that where his memories had gone? What could have made him attack the Conclave? No, no, for now he didn’t know he’d done anything. He didn’t think he would either. He wasn’t the violent type. It wasn’t him. He was a coward, not a terrorist, not an attacker.

 

          “You think I had something to do with it.”

 

          It wasn’t a question, the way he phrased it. They did think he did it. It was obvious not only in their mannerisms, but in the questions directed at him. He was a mage; it was obviously his fault as far as anyone else was concerned. His own brothers and sisters may very well blame him. If he didn’t know himself, he might have easily thought he was trying to emulate Anders. As it stood, he knew he couldn’t have done this. Nonetheless, it was demanded that he explain the mark on his hand. The tall woman was pacing around him as he was left to think a moment, his brow furrowed.

 

          “I... don’t know. I don’t even know how that got there.”

 

          “You’re lying.”

 

          “Of course! Because the mage always lies!”

 

          The woman withdrew her arm as if to strike him physically, only to have her arm held by another, this one in a hood. She might’ve always been there, or entered with the… Antivan? He didn’t know accents, having not heard many of them, but if he had to guess, he’d say she wasn’t from Ferelden, or the Marches, and he didn’t think Orlesian would sound so… coarse. The woman in the hood though, she spoke how he always imagined Orlesians would sound, a roll to her letters that made her words flow together, even as the urgency shaded her phrase.

 

          “We need him, Cassandra!”

 

          So the Antivan was Cassandra.

 

 

* * *

 

 

          The breach. That’s what they called it. It was a giant gaping hole in the sky, pelting out missiles of demons like rain from a cloud. It matched the mark on his hand. He could understand why they had assumed he’d had a part in its occurrence. It was terrifying, huge, and it was threatening every single life within all of Thedas. It had a twin on his palm, and so why shouldn’t they think they were related?

 

          Walking out of the dungeon had been a nightmare. He’d tried to focus on Cassandra’s words. He’d managed to reply here and there, and she seemed to have found his answers adequate. If you’d asked him to repeat them though, he could tell you. His main focus was on the heraldry surrounding him; The Heraldry of the Chantry. That ever-present sunburst was displayed proudly no matter where he turned. Walls, clothes, chests. He found himself fighting for breath as they walked toward the gates and out of them. Down the path, around, more wagons, more chests, dead bodies. Everything was stamped with that damn symbol. As if he didn’t have it seared into his memory enough as it was, reflecting off foreheads with emotionless voices.

 

          They walked up the path, the mark on his palm still shooting pain up his arm, his elbow aching. The path was burning, books, clothes, wagons, remnants of people’s lives, all interrupted by the explosion that had rocked the area. The Breach spasmed, green lightning shooting from it with a crash as an echo of that same pulse traveled past his shoulder and across his back, sending Damien collapsing to the ground, gripping his arm. Cassandra helped him up and looked on his with a modicum of pity before informing him that it was only going to get worse.

 

          Continuing along the path took them to a stone bridge which would otherwise have been completely uneventful if not for the fact that another demon-chariot came thundering down to the earth, shattering it and sending both him and Cassandra falling to the surface of the frozen river below. Damien slowly righted himself in time to see Cassandra advancing toward one of the demons that had materialized from the debris of the bridge. As seemed to be typical of Damien’s luck lately, her absence was followed by a churning along the ice at his feet, signaling something, and he had no doubt that it was nothing good.

 

          Damien looked around in panic, his eyes falling to a staff not 5 feet away from him. He dove for it, snatching up the wooden stave and spinning it around, his stance defensive as a shade rose up from the bubbling that had overtaken the ice. He whipped out with the staff, grateful that using a staff had been taught at the Circle, even if they weren’t actually allowed to keep one. The motion cause a small projectile to hurl itself toward the demon, shattering on impact. It appeared like he was lucky enough to have found an ice-oriented staff.

 

          “Of course, it would be ice.”

 

          He continued to fling hardened snowballs, his stave kicking out chunks of the freezing matter wildly before the demon fell the ground, crumpling into a green mush. He idly poked at it, then noticed a small glimmer in the… remains. He prodded about a bit more, digging through the demon-sludge and picking out a small crystalline lump. He wiped the gem off on the tunic of his armor, then tucked it into his pocket. Who knew what it could be used for?

 

          He jogged up to Cassandra as she slayed her own foe, only to have her turn around, her sword pointing on his chest. She demanded he lay down the staff of all things. Damien bit his lower lip, his brows pressing together. He could do as she said, and lose his only method of defense, or he could think of a way to keep it. He clenched his jaw and glared at her. Maker preserve him but he wouldn’t risk his life any more than he already was.

 

          “I don’t need a staff to hurt _you_ , you know!”

 

          “Is that supposed to reassure me?”

 

          Her tone was biting, and Damien’s glared increased.

 

          “Well, I haven’t used my magic on you yet, have I?”

 

          Cassandra also clenched her jaw, and they spent a moment staring at each other. She couldn’t know how his heart pounded in his chest, how his palms grew slick with sweat. She couldn’t know how he was fighting back a sobbed out apology out of pure instinct not to be reprimanded. She may not have been a Templar, but years of brutality had woven those patterns into the recesses of his mind. Those instincts were a part of his being as much as his need to breath.

 

          “... You don’t need a staff… but you should have one. This should have been enough to show me that I can’t protect you from whatever we may face. I should remember that, like you said, you didn’t attack me, or run.”

 

          Damien searched her face for any sign of treachery, any sign that she was lying, that she was just trying to get his guard down, any sign that there was a falsehood in her speech. He couldn’t find one. Either she was telling the truth, which was doubtful given the circumstances, or she was an excellent liar, which was also doubtful, just because she didn’t seem like the type who’d be skilled at lying. Perhaps that meant he should be even more suspicious of her. Either way, there was little choice for Damien to do anything about it if she was trying to lure him into a false sense of security, so he only nodded, his grip on the staff tightening as he followed her up the hill back onto some semblance of a path.

 

          “We’re getting closer. You should start to hear the fighting ahead.”

 

          Fighting? There was more of that? Damien was not a fighter. He wasn’t made for combat. Sure enough, though, as they crested the hill, the sound of bow twags, the sounds of a staff discharging and the sounds of swords biting into soft meat met Damien’s ears. Not a full second later, the path turned past a dilapidated wall and he was looking down a ruined foundation into what might have been a cellar of some building or another. Demons and men alike fought, and in their midst was a smaller replica of the breach, bright green crystals protruding from it as it compacted itself inward.

 

          Cassandra leapt into action, jumping down the foundation and into the dirt to take up arms herself. Damien hesitated to literally jump in like she had, instead opting to stay on the small ledge and fire his staff from the safer vantage point. As the demons fell, he found himself growing bold enough to slide down and walk closer, still staying along the outskirts of the grouping. Once the last demon was defeated, he felt his wrist being grabbed as he was tugged toward the mini-breach.

 

          “Quickly!”

 

          Numbly he allowed himself to be yanked in the general direction of it, his palm searing as the same green tendrils from earlier shot out, touching the rift. He could almost feel it, as if it was an extension of himself, caressing the tear before there was a tug, his arm growing taunt as the tendrils straightened, pulling on the mini-breach with increasing force. He took a half-step closer to it before there was an audible burst, the tendrils whipping backward toward him, the rip snapping shut as the mark on his palm seemed to almost suck inward, pain lancing up his arm once again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

          Varric, Solas, Cassandra, it seemed these were to be his companions for the time being. First it was to the forward camp, and then it was to the massive breach at the temple. Damien didn’t know anyone who had been at the temple. He hadn’t lost friends, nor role models. Loved ones, nor acquaintances. Even still, walking amongst the corpses, was difficult. Many of them were nothing more than burned husks. Shells of their former occupants, some still burning with green flames.

 

          Damien had never seen a dead body. Any mages that died or were killed were always disposed of efficiently at the circle. These though, were unrecognizable. They could have been humans, elves, adults, children, dwarves, it didn’t matter. All that remained were charred, frozen bodies. Positioned in varying stages of agony, Damien walked silently among them, his hands clenching against his clothes.

 

          It was habit for him; that whenever something bothered Damien, he only grasped his tunic. It kept his nails from biting into his palms, gave him something to grab onto, and the fabric of whatever he wore absorbed the sweat from his hands. This was no exception as he tightened his grip, trying not to stare too long at the deceased.

 

          “This… is where our soldiers found you.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

          The breach hurt. It wasn’t just the mark on his palm, either. He could feel it in his head. The fade was bleeding into the waking world, distorting his reserves and draining his energy. It was bad enough that he still wasn’t sure what exactly had happened in that room. He remembered hearing a cry for help. He now supposed it must have been the Divine. As to what exactly was happening in that room, though? Cassandra’s guess was no less informed.

 

          The men and women surrounding him were prepared for the demons that Solas had warned would be attracted by the opening and subsequent closing of the Breach, but Damien wasn’t sure if he was as ready. They didn’t have time for him to hesitate. He closed his eyes, whispering a quick prayer to the Maker, painfully aware that this may be his last chance to beg redemption and a place at His side.

 

          With a clenched jaw, Damien held up his hand. Once again he felt the tug, but this time it was stronger, as if his arm was going to be yanked out of his shoulder, as if the bone was stretching. He felt a vibration, growing in intensity as there was another snap, The Breach opening with a tearing noise beyond what he thought possible. Just as it opened, a large demon materialized in the air, dropping down and surveying the gathered forces.

 

          It gave a dark chuckle, cruel eyes glinting before it swung it’s arm outward, sending a soldier flying backward. Another moment and it seemed to create some form of whip, purple sparks lining up obediently for it. Damien furrowed his brow and sent a beam of blue to hover around their forces, creating small temporary shields from the damage to come as best he could.

 

          Otherwise, he hovered back, away from the demon, firing ice crystals at it. He watched as it drew energy from the breach, creating its own shielding. Damien did the only thing he could think of to try and get rid of that shield. He disrupted the breach again. Pain shot up to his shoulder blade, mixing in the vibrations as, with another snap, the creature was stunned, it’s shield gone.

 

          _‘Perfect… stun and weaken them by weakening the breach… I can deal wi-’_

 

          His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp pain against his back. Spinning around revealed a shade, it’s claws bared. Of course. Disrupting the breach may stun the demons, but it also attracted more of them.

 

          Summoning lightning up underneath the creature, he continued to fire ice into it as finally it crumpled, leaving behind the same green goo that the one under the bridge had. He then turned his attention back to the larger demon, only to see that it had once again brought up a shield.

 

          This push and pull of disrupting the breach, fighting the smaller demons, and then harming the larger one until it was time to disrupt the breach again continued for the better part of an hour before finally the creature crumpled to the ground, and the breach remained open, ripe for closure.

 

          “Now, Close it!”

 

          The voice was Solas’ but Damien didn’t make the connection. He was exhausted, his arm was throbbing from the repeated use. As if in a trance, he raised his arm one last time only to have it jerked forward as the green tendrils pulled him toward the breach. That same gut wrenching pain, that tug followed with a snap. But this time, there was no snap, just blackness. Blissful unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I'm bad at reading through my own work. After the second read through, I get bored and skim a bit... a lot. So. please feel free to let me know of any odd wording, or typos, so I can fix them.

**Author's Note:**

> Also PSSSSSSSt, look it's my baby: http://i.imgur.com/RtOXUD0.png


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